


Ready to Serve

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky is a Health Nut, Christmas, Clint Barton is a junk food junkie, Fluff, M/M, Neighbors to Lovers AU, Smut, Steve Could Burn Water, Steve and Bucky love cooking shows, SteveBucky Secret Santa Exchange 2017, cooking au, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 05:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: This is my entry for the 2017 SteveBucky Secret Santa Exchange, a gift for worrisomeme.





	Ready to Serve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [worrisomeme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/worrisomeme/gifts).



> Author’s Note: Inspired by the Tumblr otpprompt:
> 
> Person A and B are neighbors. A doesn’t like cooking so they prefer buying instant food, etc. Whereas, B always cooks healthy homemade food. B notices A’s pure laziness so B decides to cook for A whenever they can and constantly remind them to take care of their health. And A genuinely appreciates B because no one has ever done anything like this for them.
> 
> One night, A decides to try cooking for once so they go to the grocery store to buy some ingredients. Coincidentally B is there also. A expects B to buy veggies or any other healthy stuff but instead, a big amount of junk food filled up B’s basket. They also notice B’s bitter and apathetic expression, which is very unlikely of them. A starts to get worried so they take B home and cook dinner for them. Then, A tries to comfort B and wait for them to speak up.

Whenever Bucky went to the supermarket, he people-watched. You could tell a lot by what a person unloaded onto the conveyor belt, especially at rush hour. Bucky followed his mother’s mantra, “Never go food shopping when you’re hungry.” That advice served him well, right out of the gate, when he first moved out of his parents’ house and got his apartment with Clint. That first month, Bucky and Clint made horrible choices whenever they shopped together straight after work. Frozen pizzas filled up a third of the cart. The two of them split the box of Twinkies on the ride home, heathens that they were. The grocery checker gave them an aggrieved sigh when Clint presented her with the generous, crumpled handful of coupons, and she was _definitely_ judging them for the cases of Pepsi and the plastic-ringed rack of Gatorade. The receipt was easily a yard long, sending them both into sticker shock that they managed to spend that much on junk.

They spent another foolish, indulgent month shopping like that, filling their cupboards with instant, packaged goods and snacks, lacking anything green in their refrigerator, until Bucky’s accident. The pickup truck plowed into Bucky’s Camry at the intersection at the bottom of the hill, striking Bucky’s passenger side, thank God. But the crash jarred every vertebrae in his body. Bucky had myriad stress fractures in his thoracic spine and neck, and contusions and lacerations all over his flesh. The pickup’s driver was a teenaged girl out past her curfew; she had already faced a grounding for taking her parents’ truck without permission. She escaped the accident with a broken leg that surgeons had to pin in two places.

Bucky returned home after three weeks in the hospital, with a prescription for physical therapy and a raft of painkillers stacked across his kitchen counter. Clint helped him up and down from chairs whenever he needed it, took care of Bucky’s laundry and brought in the mail, but over the coming weeks, Bucky gained twenty pounds from being sedentary. Clint was no cook. Fast food English muffin sandwiches for breakfast. Chef Boyardee for lunch. DiGiorno’s deep-dish crust pizza for dinner.

Winifred and Becca stopped by one day to take Bucky to his PT appointment. The two of them stared agog at the cluttered apartment and the piles of fast food bags and boxes that overflowed from the trash. Becca wrinkled her nose. “Tell me this isn’t how you two live,” she pleaded.

“Been living it up, have we?” Winifred took one look at the pile of dishes in the sink and began putting away the few clean ones in the drying rack.

“Don’t worry about that, Ma.”

“I’m worried about _you_ ,” she snapped. “Baby, you’ve got to take better care of yourself than this.”

Bucky sighed in defeat. His neck was still supported by a hard collar; his cheeks looked pudgier from above its edge, no doubt from his indulgences. Becca had the nerve to reach out and poke his soft gut where it protruded over the waistband of his gray sweats. “The sweats just complete the look,” she mused.

“Leave me alone,” he growled.

“Sorry. Garbage in, garbage out, buddy. You’ll feel like crap if you keep eating that stuff.”

Over the next few weeks, Winifred took over the shopping. The cabinets gradually emptied themselves of boxed mac and cheese, Campbell’s soup, and Cocoa Pebbles. Winifred replaced them with dry pastas, beans, spices, Raisin Bran and Special K, and bags of bulk quinoa and oatmeal. The fat-free milk and no sugar added apple juice jockeyed for space on the refrigerator rack with Clint’s Pepsis. The produce bins were stuffed with bags of spinach, zucchini and carrots. Winifred dragged Bucky into the kitchen, motioned for him to take a place on the stool she pulled up for him, and showed him three different ways to fix broccoli and chicken.

Every time Becca came to their apartment, now, Clint would clutch his bowl of Cap’n Crunch protectively to his chest. “Don’t get any ideas, girly,” he warned. “I’ve got my eye on you.” Becca, in true Becca fashion, would peel off an evil sounding laugh. It took months, but Bucky gradually recovered from his injuries, increased his activities to tolerance, and slowly whipped himself back into shape. Becca turned him on to the natural foods shop downtown and left cooking magazines on his coffee table.

Slowly but surely, Bucky began food shopping by himself, and he managed to make more reasonable choices without Clint tossing pudding cups and Milano cookies into the cart. He began shopping after dinner, even if “dinner” only consisted of an apple smeared with peanut butter when the refrigerator shelves were really bare. But it helped.

On this particular night, Bucky leaned against the bar of his cart, shoulders comfortably slumped and foot resting against the bar between the wheels, waiting his turn in line behind a skinny blond unloading a cart that screamed “summer camp kid who raided the canteen.” Bucky watched his hands, long and slender, as he scooped up each item. He had short, clean nails and slim wrists.

“Geez,” Bucky murmured under his breath as he watched the guy unpack his cart onto the conveyor. No one could excuse that many Tina’s Cantina bean burritos. Bucky silently bit his lip at the box of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. Okay. One impulse item was fine, but the rest of the cart made Bucky shudder. Hamburger Helper microwavable cups? A whole case of Cup o’Noodles? Two boxes of Eggo mini waffles? The _chocolate chip kind_ , no less???

The cashier rang him up and cheerfully asked him “Need to buy any bags today?”

“Nope,” he shot back just as cheerfully as he pulled out his debit card. Bucky noticed his small pile of reusable canvas tote bags inside his cart.

“That’ll be one-sixty-eight fifty-six.”

As he put his debit card away, he glanced up and noticed Bucky watching him, and a bright grin broke across his face. “Hey, neighbor!” His slender body was swamped in a big, blue hoodie, and the brim of his red baseball cap was pulled down over his eyes, but Bucky suddenly recognized the rich, deep voice.

“Oh, hey.” Bucky huffed in amusement. “What’s up, Steve?”

“Doin’ my least favorite thing,” he admitted. “I hate gettin’ groceries more than I hate doin’ laundry.”

Bucky nodded in agreement, feeling the corners of his mouth pulling up. Steve looked pleasantly rumpled and as tired as Bucky felt. Steve’s light blue eyes were slightly bloodshot. “I hear ya.”

“Wow. That’s… that’s a lot of Brussells sprouts,” Steve remarked as he glanced into Bucky’s cart. The cashier sent Steve’s order down to the end of the belt, toward the bagging area. 

“My sister taught me a good recipe with ‘em. It involves bacon.”

Steve looked impressed. “That’s the only way I’d consider eating ‘em. My ma used to love ‘em. Always tried to get me to eat ‘em, but I’d sneak ‘em to the dog under the table.”

Bucky wrinkled his nose in amused disgust. “Sneaky.” And with the groceries Steve bought for himself, that story didn’t surprise Bucky at all. “That might land you on the naughty list, Rogers.”

Steve snorted. “I know, right? The elf on the shelf might be watchin’ me.” He sobered for a moment. “Don’t know whose naughty list I’m on these days, anyway, though. I don’t really do Christmas, anymore.”

Bucky opened his mouth to ask why, but the cashier beckoned to him impatiently to load his food onto the belt. He belatedly complied, while Steve moved to the bagging platform and began to pack of his goods. “Are you working for the holiday, Steve?”

“Yeah,” he mused. “Kinda sucks. The other driver asked for it off before me.” Steve worked for a home medical supplier and drove a supply truck, which meant that he was on call a lot on the weekends. Bucky often saw him coming and going, dressed in his Dickie’s pants and work polo shirts, hair covered under a baseball cap with the hospital’s logo and his badge clipped to his shirt pocket. “I mean, it wasn’t like I was gonna do anything special for it, anyway, but holiday call sucks. Good money, but people send me their orders without checkin’ ‘em first, because they’re so busy trying to get patients discharged home.”

“I bet.” Bucky’s lemons tumbled out of the bag because he hadn’t knotted the bag tightly enough, and he chased after them until the cashier reminded him that she had to count them, anyway. 

“You’ve gotta head home and put all that away, and then you hafta _cook_ it,” Steve marveled as the cashier scanned Bucky’s items.

“Doesn’t take much effort.”

“Neither does throwing a pizza in the microwave and hitting the ‘Pizza’ button.” Steve’s eyes crinkled as he packed his last bag.

“Breakfast of champions,” Bucky teased.

“Especially when I work nights,” Steve pointed out. “Hey, good seein’ you, Buck.”

“Take it easy, Stevie.”

Steve meandered through the crowd of exiting shoppers with his cart, slightly hunched over it in the way of someone glad for the end of the day. Bucky stared down at his chicken breasts, sighing. Steve was right; Bucky was going to have to _unpack all of this, put it away, and actually cook it when he got home._ Ugh…

But the chicken was worth it. Lightly battered with bread crumbs, sauteed in olive oil and garlic, baked with parmesan and sauce, and served beside a mound of zucchini “noodles” that he made by peeling them off in long strips.

Bucky wondered if Steve was a chicken parm kind of guy.

*

Clint looked up from his copy of _Sports Illustrated_ when he staggered inside with plastic bags looped around his wrists. “Hey. Brock called. He cancelled on you.”

Bucky swung the heaviest bag up onto the kitchen counter huffed in annoyance. “Did he say why?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck.” Bucky scrubbed his palm over his jaw as he stared at the food. Okay. So it would just be Clint and Bucky for dinner. Bucky hadn’t wanted to see that movie anyway. ~~Even though he actually did.~~

Clint gave the chicken rave reviews. He thanked Bucky with a garlic-scented belch and by skipping out on the dirty dishes.

*

Bucky ran into Steve again the next evening, as Steve was coming upstairs with his handful of mail. He looked wan and tired, trudging along like he couldn’t wait to take off his shoes. He gave Bucky a sunny smile, though. “Hey, Barnes.”

“Hey. How was your day?”

“It was a bear,” he told him. “Had to deliver and put together three hospital beds and do two oxygen concentrator set-ups, and then I had to drive an hour up the hill to deliver a walker that the unit secretary could’ve ordered from Central Supply before the patient left.”

“Job security,” Bucky told him. 

“I’m hungry enough to chew my own arm off. I’ve got a hot date with a bowl of ramen.”

Bucky grimaced. “Steve, c’mon, buddy. You can do better than that.”

“It’s quick,” he said with a shrug.

“I know, but it’s not healthy. All that _salt_. Your blood pressure’s gonna shoot up through the roof.”

“I’m fine, Buck!”

“C’mon, Steve. Look, I’ll tell you what: Come over to dinner. I’m making spaghetti. You’re gonna love my marinara.”

“ _Your_ marinara? What, you _make_ sauce?”

“Yep. C’mon. Come and eat. I’ve even got a little something for you to snack on if you’re already starving. But don’t settle for that crap.”

“Wow. That sounds so high-brow.” But Steve looked delighted. “That sounds good, though. Let me get changed. Want me to bring anything over? Like drinks?”

“If you want. You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“All right, then.”

“Well, all right, then.” Steve’s lips twisted in a little smirk.

“You don’t even need a jacket and tie to get into Chez Bucky. You’ll love the ambience,” Bucky called after him. Steve snickered before his apartment door shut behind him.

Okay, Bucky decided.

Okay.

*

Steve showed up twenty minutes later with a jug of cran-grape juice tucked in his arm and dressed in weathered jeans and a long-sleeved, forest green tee. His blond hair appeared darker, damp from his shower and still comb-tracked. He smelled like Old Spice and his long bangs flopped slightly over the edge of his reading glasses. “Bucky, that smells _amazing_.” He looked more relaxed, and pleasantly surprised.

“Told you,” he reminded him as he ushered him inside. Bucky managed to clean up the mountain of dishes and nagged Clint to take the trash down with him on his way out. That left them alone, with “Pardon the Interruption” on the TV, just audible over the whir of the stove’s overhead fan. “Take a load off, buddy.”

“How long have you and Clint been living here? It’s nice in here, by the way.”

“Home, sweet hovel,” Bucky agreed. “About a year, now. We renewed the lease last week.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. Works out pretty well. Don’t have to drive that far to get to work.”

Bucky came out and handed him a plate of fancy looking cheese and bread crisps topped with slices of tomato. “Okay,” Steve muttered. “This… this looks fancy.”

“Bruschetta. Try one!”

“Wow.” Steve set the plate down on the coffee table, picked up one of the crisps, and took a cautious bite. “Mmmmmph. Good. S’good, Buck.” He cleaned a drop of tomato juice and olive oil from the corner of his mouth before it could drip down and stain his shirt.

“I threw on a little fresh basil. Don’t be shy.”

“I know, but come hang out with me and eat some of it, before I scarf down all of it.”

Bucky felt a little flush of warmth. It was nice to have his efforts appreciated. “Let me put the pasta on first.” The meatballs were already simmering in the sauce, and the fragrance made both their stomachs growl. The apartment was warm from the heat of the kitchen. Bucky poured them each a glass of juice and hunkered down beside Steve on the couch, handing him one of them.

“Were you going to cook all of this, anyway?”

“Eh. More or less.” Bucky took a sip of his juice. “I still would have cooked. I just would have had to eat alone.”

Steve felt himself flush and waffled over whether to pursue that opener. “Alone, huh?”

“Clint’s working tonight, and… yeah.” Bucky stared down into his glass, contemplating it.

“Cancelled plans?”

“It’s been happening a lot more, lately.”

“That’s rough, Buck.”

“Yeah. Well. It’s not great, but… there ya go.” Bucky took a bruschetta for himself and nodded for Steve to help himself again. “I’ve been meaning to try out his recipe for the meatballs for a while. You’ll have to be my guinea pig.”

“That doesn’t worry me at all,” Steve teased. Bucky elbowed him in umbrage. They watched TV and snacked while they waited on the pasta. Steve was more relaxed in Bucky’s apartment, less fidgety than Bucky was used to seeing him. He had a funny habit of talking with his hands, and he laughed easily. Bucky didn’t stand on ceremony when Steve asked him if he wanted them to eat in the kitchen.

“Living room’s fine. Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve gotta watch _Die Hard_. I always watch it around Christmas when it comes on.”

“Man after my own heart.” Steve tried one of the meatballs, well seasoned and tender when he dug his fork into it. He blew on it and tucked a morsel of the still-steaming meat into his mouth, and Steve made an obscene noise as he savored it. “Oh, my God.” It came out garbled, sounding more like _Uhmagaht_. “That’s _so_ good, Bucky.”

“Fennel seed,” Bucky explained. “Dig in, Rogers.”

They ate companionably, letting the conversation die down to better enjoy the food. Bucky couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed a meal at home more.

*

Steve helped him wash the dishes and put away the leftovers. He gave Bucky a brief half-hug - more of a shoulder bump, respecting his boundaries - at the door before he left. “You spoiled me,” Steve told him. “That was fantastic.”

“Beats ramen, doesn’t it?”

“Hey, don’t knock my ramen.”

“Take care of yourself, Stevie.”

Steve watched him shyly as he retreated into the corridor. “Yeah.. You too, Buck.” His voice was shy, and he rubbed his nape and shot him a smile that made Bucky’s chest flutter a little. “Thanks again.”

“Night, Stevie.”

Clint came home and predictably scarfed down the leftovers. “Hey, bruschetta! That’s pretty fancy. I thought Dickface - uh, I mean, Brock - wasn’t coming over tonight.”

“He didn’t,” he assured him. “And watch yourself, Barton.”

“Oh, I know. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. It’s your life.” Clint hadn’t given Bucky his two cents about his on-again, off-again boyfriend when they first moved in together, but over time, Clint started being more blunt, especially whenever they were going through a rough patch and “needed space.” Brock never impressed him.

Brock also didn’t like dogs, a quality that Clint _just_ couldn’t abide.

Clint sat down and propped his feet on the coffee table, cradling his plate under his chin as he watched the last few minutes of _Die Hard_. “Bucky, this is an amazing meatball.”

“I know. That recipe turned out pretty well.”

“No. Bucky. Seriously. You made this meatball with love.”

Bucky simply ducked his head and made a dismissive gesture before he went back to wiping down the kitchen counter.

*

“Oh, wow. Look at _you_.” Bucky grinned as he watched Steve walk out of his apartment dressed suspiciously like an elf. He even wore a green felt hat with reindeer antlers trimmed with little bells. “Hold on, I need my phone so I can take some blackmail photos.”

“Please, don’t,” Steve pleaded, but he enjoyed the attention, shaking his head to make the little bells jingle. Bucky snickered. “It’s for the work Christmas slide show photo. I lost a bet and had to take the elf costume.”

Those skinny legs of his looked so cute in the striped tights, and he practically swam in the long, green tunic. His usual reading glasses completed the image, making him look like he stepped out of the toy workshop for a coffee break. “Might have lost the bet, but that look is a win, Rogers.”

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Buck.”

Bucky snickered. He reached out and jingled one of the little bells. “No. I like it. Hey, what are you doing for lunch today?”

Steve shrugged. “I was just gonna go to Subway.”

Bucky made a face. “Stevie. Don’t. C’mon, I’ll make us sandwiches. I just bought some really good smoked gouda -”

“Bucky, you don’t have to go through the trouble. “

“It’s no trouble. And I know I don’t have to. I _want_ to. Subway’s bread’s made out of the same stuff they use to make yoga mats.”

“Not _anymore_ ,” Steve argued.

“Still… do you trust their _meat_?”

“It’s… a meatlike substance.”

“I’ve got black forest ham and some nice honey dijon mustard? And I bought a really good loaf of organic ciabatta from that little bakery by the laundromat?”

“God, here, take my arm and twist it some more!” Steve pushed his elbow at Bucky. “Okay, okay. I’ll see you here, when? Twelve-ish?”

“Whenever you get a break from making your deliveries.”

“Then, I’ll be home for lunch.”

 

Steve showed up with a bag of veggie chips and a couple of Odwalla smoothies. While Steve ate, Bucky briefly stole his elf hat and tried it on. “I might keep this,” he threatened.

“It’s not a bad look.”

Because Bucky looked hot in _everything_.

 

*

Brock still hadn’t committed to plans with Bucky for Christmas Eve. Only two more weeks to go. 

*

 

Lunches and dinners with Steve became a habit. Bucky dragged Steve to the New Earth market around the corner and loaded him up with vitamins, echinacea teas, and natural cold lozenges when Steve came by his apartment the other day sounding hoarse and congested. 

“I catch at least one case of bronchitis a year,” Steve wheezed. “Sucks.”

“Right. I’m pouring tea down your throat, and I’m putting lemon and honey in it. We’re gonna patch you up, Rogers.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.” But Steve appreciated the tea. Bucky even tossed a blanket over him where he burrowed miserably into Bucky’s couch, nose red and eyes watery. They watched horrible holiday movies, like _Jingle All the Way_ and _Christmas Vacation_ while Bucky made them soup. 

Bucky reached over and tucked Steve’s blanket more tightly around him to block out the draft, earning himself Steve’s snort, but Steve didn’t swat his hands away.

And maybe, just maybe, when Steve nodded off after Clark Griswold’s tree went up in flames, Bucky edged a little closer to Steve, and Steve sought him out even in sleep, letting his head sag onto Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky woke him up for the finished soup and cranberry walnut muffins and refilled his tea. 

“If I spend all night peeing my brains out, it’s your fault, Barnes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Eat your soup, wise guy.”

*

 

It took Bucky another day or two to realize that his open invitation to Steve for lunch and dinner was a routine, now. Clint’s amused mutter of “God, look at you, Barnes, you’re so whipped” clarified things a bit, too. 

“No’m not. I am _not_ whipped.”

“Bullshit. You _like_ him.”

“As a friend. He’s a _friend,_ dingus.”’

“You might as well be handing him frappuccino with little hearts drawn in the foam. Don’t get me wrong, Bucky? I mean, I like Steve. I do. And I don’t miss seeing Brock’s skeevy ass around here for even a hot minute. Are you two officially broken up yet?”

“Pffft… we’re not… officially _anything_.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Bucky and Brock were just sort of skating along. And this funny little attraction to Steve didn’t come along at the most ideal time. If, Bucky considered, that was what this was.

If he was _admitting_ that he was attracted to Steve Rogers. And he wasn’t. Quite.

Yet.

~~Was he?~~

“You’re allowed to make the occasional executive decision, Bucko. Kick Rumlow to the curb and ask Blondie out. He practically lives here nowadays, anyway. One of these days, I’m gonna walk in here and see you making him _breakfast_. And when that day comes, both of you better at least be wearing pajama pants. Spare me that trauma, if you love me at all.”

*

Was the night before Christmas Eve, “Christmas Eve Eve?” Steve always kinda wondered that to himself, not sure how to qualify that, now that he wanted to make a plan for it. With Bucky.

Steve had a goal: To cook a meal with his own two hands, using real ingredients, for one James Buchanan Barnes. Except… that involved going to the grocery store and buying actual _food_. Y’know, that. And then actually figuring out how to _cook_. Right. Okay.

Steve skimmed Pinterest on his way back into his department’s parking lot, scrolling through the recipes his search turned up for “chicken casserole.” It seemed safe and somewhat idiot-proof, and he found about three different recipes that had about five or fewer ingredients. Steve kept his phone screen turned on as he navigated the aisles with his cart, which had one janky, rattling wheel practically announcing his arrival to the store. Steve knew Bucky actually kinda enjoyed spicy food - he made a mean gumbo, with andouille sausage and linguica - and Steve thought the chile relleno casserole he was planning might fit the bill. He only hoped to God that he didn’t manage to ruin it.

Steve wandered through the dairy aisle and pondered the cheeses. There were “Mexican blend” grated options, but then, he noticed small, white wheels of “queso fresco” that looked like they belonged in his recipe. He had no clue, and Steve was already sweating with frustration and confusion. He still had to pick up chicken breasts, he didn’t know if Bucky would judge him for using Rice-A-Roni instead of making his own Spanish rice, he still needed Anaheim peppers and had to look up a way to roast them-

“Stevie?”

Steve jerked himself out of his musings and looked up at the sound of that welcome voice, but his own smile faltered when he saw the condition Bucky was in.

He wore a dark baseball cap pulled down over his eyes and a battered, wine red hoodie. When Steve approached him, janky-wheeled cart and all, he noticed that Bucky’s face was a little pale. His eyes were red-rimmed and had dark smudges under them. The loudest alarms sounded in Steve’s head, though, when he glanced down and peeked at the contents of Bucky’s shopping cart.

_Oh, dear Lord._

Chocolate Ring-Dings. Boxed mac and cheese. Swiss Miss Cocoa. Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. DiGiorno pizza - three boxes, no less - and a case of ramen noodle cups. Crunch Berries cereal. Two pints of Haagen-Dazs chocolate mint ice cream. Blue raspberry wine coolers.

This was desperation shopping. Post-breakup shopping, if Steve’s guess was correct. 

Which meant… oh.

_Oh_.

“Buck? You okay?”

Bucky sighed and tried to smile, but his voice shook a little when he told him, “No.”

“This isn’t like you. I ain’t gonna judge you right now, pal, but that cart of yours has regret written all over it if you take it home.”

Bucky hunched over the bar of his cart and scrubbed his face with his palm. “I don’t wanna get into it right now, Stevie. Just leave me and my Crunch Berries in peace.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. Hey.” Bucky frowned as he noticed the contents of Steve’s cart. “What’s going on, here? This… this looks like… you’re _cooking_ something??!?”

Steve steeled himself. “...yes?”

Bucky looked flummoxed.

Steve blushed and handed over his smartphone, still showing his Pinterest screen.

“Help a guy out?”

*

 

After another twenty of minutes of Steve’s welcome distraction, which involved letting Bucky guide him through the produce section to select the right peppers and a bunch of other things that Steve only hoped he would actually use before they spoiled in his fridge; he tried not to take it _too_ personally when Bucky picked up Steve’s box of Rice-A-Roni and gave it a little shake, lips curling smugly.

But they checked out their goods. The cashier, a tall, stately woman whose name tag said “Ororo” and who had sympathetic blue eyes, gave Bucky a knowing, pitying look.

“Haagen-Dazs, huh?” She slid both tubs over the scanner plate and tsked. “Did they cheat?”

“Frankly, kiddo, I don’t know if there’s anybody in this city who he _didn’t_ sleep with,” Bucky admitted.

“We’re having a special on Smuckers Hot Fudge sauce, if you’re interested,” she told him. “The coupon should come up on your receipt?”

Steve glanced around and saw the display of Smuckers jars two aisles down, quietly excused himself, and trotted over to grab a jar. He excused himself again as he cut back in front of the guy behind him while Bucky paid for his order. Bucky raised his eyebrows at Steve as he laid it on the conveyor. Steve shrugged at him and said, “Why not? Can’t hurt.”

Ororo cocked her brow and smiled at Steve as she handed Bucky his receipt, tearing off the coupon in question and handing it to Steve. While Bucky packed his purchases into his reusable totes, Ororo rang Steve up.

“Are you making Mexican food tonight?”

“I’m gonna try,” he admitted.

“Looks ambitious.”

“Yeah. I was kinda hoping to have company for dinner, tonight.” She scanned the coupon for Steve, and Steve inserted his ATM chip into the reader and glanced over at Bucky with a crooked smile. “Dessert, too, if he’s in that kinda mood.” 

Bucky felt his cheeks warm at Steve’s tone and intent.

“Nothing wrong with that,” she agreed. “Cash back?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“Good luck with that dinner, buddy,” Ororo told him. 

Oh, if only.

*

 

They arrived separately at their apartment building, trudging upstairs with their bags. Steve set his down at his stoop while he searched for his keys in his pocket. “Buck… maybe you already had plans for dinner. I mean, I know you have a date with DiGiorno -”

“Haha. Yeah. Sure I do, punk.” But Bucky’s eyes crinkled in that way that made Steve’s knees weak. “You’re really gonna try that casserole, huh?”

“Bucky… damn it. I have no clue what I’m doing.”

“It’s not hard to roast the peppers, Stevie.”

“I’ll tell the fire department you told me that when they arrive later tonight, then.”

A snicker escaped Bucky. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes.” Then, “I’ll bring the Haagen-Dazs.”

*

 

The peppers roasted in the oven while Bucky sliced the queso fresco into sticks. An episode of “Worst Cooks” on the Food Network droned in the background while Steve dumped two of Bucky’s cocoa packets into a saucepan and poured in some milk. If they were having a Just Got Dumped dinner, they were doing it _right_.

“We were together for a long time. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, but I thought we were comfortable, y’know?”

“Even recently?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothin’, I guess. I dunno… it just never seemed like he came around much, lately. You always had so much free time. Didn’t seem like he ever came around to pick you up, or… anything.”

“It kinda always depended on Brock, I guess. Shit. I don’t know, Stevie.” Bucky wiped his nose on a paper towel; his eyes were watering from the scent of chopped onions and roasting peppers. “I guess I just didn’t read the signs. Or maybe I just didn’t want to.”

“If you were comfortable, you were comfortable,” Steve reasoned. 

“I never check his phone,” Bucky told Steve. “But it was just sitting there on the counter, and it pinged with a text when he was taking a shower. It was from this really babyfaced guy that went by T.J. He sent him a nude.” Then Bucky huffed a little laugh. “A really fancy nude.”

“Fancy?”

“He was lying across a grand piano.”

“Must’ve been chilly,” Steve muttered.

“Not _that_ chilly. Trust me.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I’m not gonna unsee that. At least he was cute.”

“He had nothin’ on you.” Steve gently knocked elbows with Bucky as he opened the pack of chicken breasts. “Nudes, huh? Sounds like that guy was tryin’ too hard, Buck.”

Bucky couldn’t force down his smile. “Go ahead and scrub off the black parts,” Bucky told Steve once the peppers were roasted to his satisfaction. “Then take out the seeds. That’ll keep ‘em from burning your mouth.”

“Gotcha, Boss.”

What was supposed to be Steve cooking for Bucky became Bucky saving both of them from food poisoning (“Chicken is never ‘medium rare,’ Stevie. That’s just _raw_. Let it cook another few minutes.”) But Bucky didn’t mind. It was fun to hang out in Steve’s kitchen for a change. It was very clean (Steve never cooked, remember) and there were photos of Steve and his mom tacked to the refrigerator. There were also framed sketches of Steve’s hanging on the walls, some done in charcoal, and others in Copic marker.

“Why are you driving a truck for a living?” Bucky accused. “These are fantastic.”

“It’s just a little something I do,” he told him simply.

“You do it well. Why are you hiding all this talent?”

“M’not hiding it. I just draw what I like.”

“I wish I had the skill to do something like this,” Bucky murmured as he stared at a gorgeous city scape sketch of Boston Park Commons, including the fountain. “Look at those details.”

“I’d swap that for bein’ able to cook,” Steve admitted. “I suck at it.”

“Suck at what? Chopping an onion? Throwing a few chicken breasts into a pan?”

“Yeah. All of that. Pretty much.” Steve’s tone was self-deprecating and his nod was emphatic.

“Anyone can cook, Stevie.”

“Not _this_ anyone, but nice try, pal.”

“We’ll make a cook out of you yet, punk.”

They finished making dinner together, meaning that Steve stirred the Rice-A-Roni while Bucky did everything else. They huddled on the couch and ate, blowing to cool bites of casserole and periodically wiping their noses against the spicy heat of the food, but it was well worth it.

“Are you sad that you two are over, Buck?”

“Not that we’re over. Just that we waited this long. I invested a lot of time and energy in that guy. We wanted different things, I guess. Makes me wonder how he really saw me. And what he thought I wasn’t giving him.”

“Anything you gave him was never gonna be enough if he cheated, Bucky. Not because of you. Because of him.”

“Just wish I hadn’t ignored the signs,” Bucky admitted. “The little things. The late nights out. The calls he didn’t return. And after a while, he even _tasted_ wrong.”

Steve almost choked on a bite of chicken. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Just… I’d kiss him, and even that felt a little off. His whole mouth tasted ‘off.’”

“Wow. Weird.”

“Yeah.”

“Gross, even.”

“Yeah. I didn’t really admit it until after we were over, but yeah. It was.”

 

Steve heated up the hot fudge sauce in the microwave and took credit for “making dessert” when he brought that, along with a tub of Haagen-Dazs that had two spoons protruding from it. 

“The piece de resistance,” Steve boasted with a little flourish. “Dig in.”

They shared the ice cream, eating it in huge, decadent spoonfuls, drizzling hot fudge into the container as it disappeared. That required sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs brushing as they ate. Steve had the heat turned on, but he draped a blanket over his lap, and offered half of it to Bucky, tucking the edge of it over him casually as they watched their way through an episode of “Iron Chef.”

“Awfully convenient of him to break up with me right before Christmas,” Bucky scoffed.

“Can you take his gift back? DId you save the receipt?”

“Already did. It wasn’t anything great, anyway. Just some socks. I know it wasn’t that romantic, but I can always use socks.”

“You’d be Mr. Wonderful in my book if you ever got me socks for Christmas,” Steve admitted. “That’s one of those things I always need and then never think to buy myself.”

“Wow. You’re low maintenance.”

“What? I love socks! My feet are always cold. Even in my work boots.”

“That’s because you’ve got no fat on you, Stevie.”

Steve blushed and grimaced. “Yeah. Don’t remind me.”

“I’m not throwing stones. I’m not. Bet it’s hard to stay warm, though.” Bucky ducked his face and smiled at the memory of his recovery. “You should’ve seen me before you met me. After my car wreck, I gained a ton of weight. My sister kept grabbing my love handles.”

“Bucky… no way. You’re built like a brick house! Your muscles have muscles.”

And he was warm, generating so much heat beside Steve that it was impossible not to lean into him. 

“I was carrying a pony keg instead of a six pack before you met me, buddy. Cooking saved me.”

“Yeah? Well, your cooking sure saved _me_. Cooking was one of those things I never really learned growing up. Ma wasn’t much of a cook, either. Worked long, crazy shifts as an RN. We ate a lot of chicken nuggets and frozen peas.” Steve’s expression was fond but sad.

“How long has she been gone?”

“This is only my second Christmas without her.”

“Wow. M’sorry, Stevie.”

“Thanks. Me, too. Holidays are hard. This isn’t my favorite time of year, Bucky.”

“What were you planning to do for it? Anything?”

“I really wasn’t.” Steve poured a little more of the fudge into the depleted tub. “I was just gonna ring in the holiday with Marie.”

“Marie?”

“Callender.”

“Oh, God.”

“She makes a mean pot pie.”

“Oh, Stevie, no.”

“Haven’t gotten any better offers yet.”

“Bullshit, you haven’t. You’re coming over for ham tomorrow night.”

“It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. You don’t have to be at your parents’?” Steve’s voice sounded hopeful. Bucky tucked Steve’s edge of the blanket more snugly around him to keep out the draft. Even though they were foolishly consuming ice cream in December.

“Not til Christmas morning, pal. And I need help baking Christmas cookies to take over there.”

“Does eating the cookie dough count as helping?”

“We’ve really gotta work on your whole concept of helping out in the kitchen, Rogers.”

“I’m good at dishes and tasting the finished product. I can crack an egg. Can’t do much else with it beyond that point, and I can’t guarantee that I won’t get the shell into it.”

“You’re scaring me, Stevie.”

“I can still help out with those cookies, if ya want.”

“Sure, you can, Rogers.”

“I’m a good taster.”

“Bet you are.”

Steve’s voice turned smug. “I’ve got good taste buds.They work well both ways.”

Bucky jerked with laughter. “What?!”

“I won’t ‘taste wrong’ if you decided you wanted to kiss me.”

And Steve braced himself, wondering if that was taking things a step too far.

Bucky set aside the ice cream tub on the arm of the couch and told him, “Well, I know that already, Stevie.”

Steve’s heart was already hammering by the time he extended the challenge to Bucky, but his stomach did a strange little flip when Bucky twisted around beside him and reached for him and grasped his shoulder, pulling him in. Steve’s face went up in flames at the first warm, sweet contact of his lips.

Chocolate and mint. And just the faintest hint of hot peppers. 

Bucky’s lips were plump and firm as they met Steve’s in a slow caress, and he smiled into it at the sound of Steve’s low sigh of pleasure. Bucky’s palm was warm, sliding up from Steve’s shoulder to the side of his neck, thumb lightly stroking Steve’s racing pulse. Steve felt himself being shifted, and the weight of Bucky’s arm settling around him. Steve’s palm drifted up to Bucky’s chest as the kisses continued, deepening and increasing in heat. 

“... _and today’s secret ingredient is - WASABI!_ ”

They ignored the television and lingered there, satisfying weeks of mutual curiosity and slow-growing hunger. Bucky drew on Steve’s lower lip, sucking on it, until he opened up and yielded to him. His tongue explored Steve’s mouth, and his excitement ticked up a notch when Steve’s fingers curled into the back of his hair, tugging on it. They exchanged breath and heat, and by the time they came up for air, Bucky was practically trembling with need.

“You’re good at that,” Bucky murmured.

“Never said I wasn’t,” Steve informed him. “I just can’t _cook_.”

“That’s… that’s fine.” Bucky kissed him again. “So, this Christmas Eve thing. Mind if we start it a little early?”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Bed? And we wake up and I make you breakfast?”

“I can crack the eggs, pal. Can’t promise much else.” Steve was starting at Bucky’s rosy lips, at the heat in those gorgeous blue eyes. “I’ll eat whatever you make me.”

“I’ll give you something to eat,” Bucky teased, voice low and dripping with want.

They found the remote in a mad scuffle and turned off “Iron Chef,” threw aside the blanket, and hurried back to Steve’s bedroom, still kissing and nearly tripping over themselves on the way. Bucky kicked Steve’s door shut after them, backed up against it, and pulled Steve into his arms, where they clung together and groped each other, grinding together before they even began to fumble with each other’s clothes. 

_He’s single._ That triumphant thought played itself on constant loop in Steve’s mind as he left his fingers roam over Bucky’s various fastenings, prying open buttons and tugging down his zipper, hearing the sharp tear of the teeth.

_He’s perfect. He tastes perfect._ Bucky only paused long enough in kissing Steve, hard, drugging kisses, to let Steve whip his shirt off over his head, wadding up the thick henley and tossing it in the corner. Steve had no spare fat on him, and Bucky’s hands skimmed over his body greedily, undoing his belt and letting the relaxed fit jeans thump down around his ankles. _God, he’s perfect._ His skin was smooth and fair, here and there sprinkled with freckles. He had a dusting of sandy hair down the center of his chest and a happy trail leading down from his adorable inny navel. They stood there in nothing but their boxer briefs, grinding on each other, hands roaming over bare skin. Steve broke free of Bucky’s kiss and nipped a path down over his stubbled chin, painting his throat and collarbones with heat, and Bucky tensed up with anticipation. As Steve descended his body, he dipped his fingers into Bucky’s waistband and pried the briefs down over his narrow, supple hips, freeing his already aroused cock. The plump head buffeted Steve’s chin as he kissed his way down Bucky’s stomach, swirling his tongue inside the dip of his navel. Bucky’s throbbing flesh jerked and twitched from Steve’s warm breath misting over it as Steve dropped to his knees. He slid his briefs all the way down, letting them drop around his ankles.

“God, Bucky…”

“Steve…!”

Bucky’s hips jerked him forward, straight into the luscious, damp heat of Steve’s mouth as he engulfed him. Steve moaned at the weight of him there, lips stretched around him, letting himself savor the slightly salty, musky flavor of Bucky’s flesh. He swirled the tip of his tongue around the plump, stiff head, gripping Bucky’s hips. Excitement poured itself into his veins when he felt Bucky’s hand slide over his scalp, combing his fingers through Steve’s hair. He felt his glasses shift on his face and realized that Bucky was gently pulling them off. Steve didn’t stop what he was doing; he just calmly continued to suck and lap at him as he plucked the glasses from Bucky’s shaking grip and laid them on top of his discarded pants. Bucky panted and groaned at the feel of the sensations that Steve wrought.

“This is something else you’re _really_ good at, Stevie.”

That earned him a long, low “Mmmmmpphhhh” and more slow, lush lapping, and Bucky decided there was no more point in talking. Not until he asked Steve where his supplies were. Bucky was teetering over the edge by the time they finally moved things to the bed. Bucky lay on his back and covered Steve as he loomed over him, still sucking on him.

“I’m not gonna last, Stevie.”

“Don’t have to, Buck. Just let me know if something doesn’t feel good.” His voice was muffled from within the blankets, which tented the bobbing of his head. Bucky stifled a laugh, but he felt a cry of pleasure pried out of his chest. Bucky chanced a brief look beneath the covers and watched his cock disappearing into Steve’s mouth, tucked between Bucky’s spread thighs, and it _did things_ to him.

Bucky learned several things about Steve Rogers over the next half an hour:

 

Steve didn’t have a gag reflex.

Steve responded well to dirty talk.

Steve _could not_ keep his hands to himself.

Steve’s fingers were long, slim… and _nimble_. By the time Bucky came the first time and he felt them slip free from within him, he was slicked and primed. Steve passed him back the lube bottle, which Bucky returned to the side table as Steve crawled up toward the pillows to join Bucky. They kissed, limbs tangled, filling each other’s hollows. Steve’s erection was caught between them, leaking hot, pearly drops, and Bucky felt himself twitching back to life. Bucky fumbled for the box of Trojans and prized out one of the foil-wrapped condoms, tearing it open with his teeth. He reached between them and ringed Steve in his fist, stroking his silky, stiff length. It throbbed in his grip, and Steve’s face went slack with pleasure.

“I didn’t buy you a Christmas present, Stevie.”

“I know what you can give me.”

“I’ll give it to you, baby,” Bucky crooned. Steve let the covers fall away, despite the chill in the room, and he knelt between Bucky’s thighs as Bucky continued to stroke him. He passed Steve the slick, damp condom, and he watched Steve roll it down and snap it in place.

“Look so pretty when you come, Bucky. Wanna make you come again. I want you to make a mess all over me. Okay?”

Bucky nodded in emphatic agreement with this plan, hair smooshed back against the pillows, as Steve slowly, smoothly mounted him, thrusting into his snug heat. Bucky felt himself cramp and burn as Steve breached him, but he accepted the intrusion as Steve began to rock his narrow hips into him. He felt so full and sensitive, and this _was another thing Steve Rogers was very, very good at_ , if Bucky was being honest. If Bucky could manage to even walk into the kitchen tomorrow morning, he was making Steve the breakfast of his _life_. Steve shifted the angle of his body and thrust deeply into Bucky, brushing that sweet spot inside of him that made pleasure spear through him.

“I like watching you take me, sweetheart.” Steve’s voice was like dark honey, and his eyes shone with lust. “You feel so sweet. You take me so well, baby…”

Bucky gripped the pillow beneath his head and panted as Steve drilled him, pumping into him and tearing cries of need from him. “Please, Stevie… _please, Stevie, oh God, please_... feels so good. You feel so good…”

“I wanna make _you_ feel good, Bucky.”

“A little faster,” he pleaded.

Steve didn’t disappoint him. He didn’t stop Bucky from helping him, tugging on his erection as Steve pushed him over the edge. Steve followed him into completion, and he felt light explode behind his eyes as he came, spilling himself inside Bucky.

They collapsed against each other and wallowed together under the covers. They panted and gasped for air, waiting for their heartbeats to slow back to their usual rhythms, and Bucky’s arms tightened around Steve. Their kisses were no longer urgent, just soft, appreciative caresses. Steve slipped free from Bucky, limp and spent, and he tugged the dripping condom loose.

“Let me take care of this and turn off the lights.”

“Make sure the stove is off, too,” Bucky reminded him.

Bucky watched with affection and amusement as Steve hobbled out of the room, still naked, to dispose of the condom. He saw the kitchen and living room lights go off from the hallway, heard Steve’s footsteps padding down the hall to the bathroom, and heard the snap of the condom being removed. Bucky reached for a handful of Kleenex from a half-empty box on Steve’s nightstand and wiped off his belly. Steve crept back inside, hunched over in his nakedness. He retrieved his glasses from the floor and moved them safely to his dresser. By the time Steve came back and dove under the covers, his skin was chilled again. Bucky wrapped him tightly in his arms, letting him tuck his cold feet between his ankles to warm him back up. Steve groaned at the luscious warmth of Bucky’s skin and ripples of muscle beneath him. His eyelids grew drowsy as Bucky’s breath stirred the hair over his brow.

“Night, Stevie.”

“Night, Buck.”

*

They didn’t emerge from Steve’s apartment until late the following afternoon. From her cash register, Ororo threw them a brief, knowing grin when Bucky and Steve walked into the store, hands linked, pushing a cart together. She made sure they knew about the coupon for candy sprinkles.

FIN.


End file.
